Packing up has begun over here at the Coconut Chronicles. Slowly, I am organizing posts and putting them into boxes. I seal them with tape and mark in black felt pen “Bahamas”, “Florida”, “Ucluelet”, “Baja”, and so on. There are other categories: “Posts that unintentionally hurt a friend”, “Posts that inspired someone to take a risk”, “Posts that were too personal and made my husband uncomfortable”, “Posts that were heavily edited so I/we wouldn’t lose my/our job”.
Sorting through all this, my emotions waver between “I’m so glad I kept a record of that time in my life” and “Oh man, why did I write about that?”
Through all my posts, one fact comes through clearly to me: I need to write.
You see, I don’t just remember the time and place and events of each post, I remember how I felt as I wrote. I remember how compelled I was to write down my thoughts, how I agonized (in the best possible way) over which words to use, over metaphors and analogies, over which parts of the story to put in and which to leave out. Even the most amateur posts I’ve written I tackled as if I might be awarded a Pulitzer Prize for my work. I remember this and my heart shrinks and withers in my chest. Why? Because that part of me is broken.
I still write and I will keep writing because…I don’t know why. Because that’s what I’m good at? Because writing is what I know? Because without writing I don’t know who I am?
You may think I’m wallowing or being melodramatic to say that I have not been the same since my sister and my dad died but that is the bitter truth. That burning drive I woke up with every day to write, write, WRITE has not returned since I lost my family. My grief has changed, lessened, become manageable. Time is doing its work in that department. I rarely cry these days, at least about the loss, and for the most part life goes on. Except for one of the most important parts: the writing part.
I keep faking it. That is to say that I do what I know I’m supposed to do but everything behind my actions has changed. All the writer problems I never used to worry about have arrived like a gang of party-crashing hoodlums. I procrastinate. I find myself staring blankly at the screen for minutes at a time, waiting for my brain to wake up. And when my brain doesn’t wake up I scroll through Facebook or Twitter or distract myself with articles or clean up files on my computer. On the worst days, I give in to the malaise and read a book or watch Netflix instead of tackling the manuscript that needs me. I doubt myself and my talent. I question why I ever thought I was any good at this. I’ve become a cliché.
For a while, these Chronicles were my refuge. At least in this space I could find the energy to translate thoughts and feelings into words, but once I realized my thoughts and feelings were now mostly made of anger and outrage I started avoiding the Chronicles too. It has been a month since my last post. I keep telling myself that I want to write a few uplifting posts to close out this blog but then…meh. Why?
The bare bones truth is that I’m clinging to self-discipline. My only hope is that by doing what I know I should be doing eventually I will come back to “normal”. That’s all I’ve got, the routine and the little voice in my head that yells at me to keep my ass in the chair and push through this.
Some days I don’t know if that will be enough.
There’s another voice that yells at me. It tells me that it’s been two years and I’m a weak, sniveling baby for not getting my shit together yet.
Some days that voice wins and I go do laundry and eat ice cream and hate myself a little.
So here we are folks, with me wishing I could close out the 15th and final year of the Coconut Chronicles with some dazzling words of wisdom and inspiration, and failing spectacularly. If you’re reading this and thinking, “Jeebus, just say goodbye and get it over with already”, you’re not alone.
Like I said, I’m faking it.
Pouring out my heart here is part of the routine. Here I am, naked, showing you all the worst parts of myself. Not because I want to but because maybe if I do what I’ve always done then memory will take the wheel.
If I’ve learned one thing being married to a real life MacGyver, it is that there’s a way to fix just about anything, no matter how broken it appears.